Chapter Text
Once, dragons ruled the skies with fire and blood. Their wings eclipsed the sun, their rumbles were thunder, and the world trembled beneath their passing. But the Seven Gods, wearied by their boundless pride and the sins that stained their wings, laid upon them a curse both cruel and eternal. Their wings were torn away, their sacred fire turned to ash, and the lords of the heavens were cast down to wander the earth.
The dragons became vampires. Immortal creatures bound within the frail prison of human flesh, neither truly man nor beast, but something mournful in between. They walked the world in borrowed bodies, haunted by the undying echo of the monsters they once were, carrying within their veins the ghost of a fire that would never burn again.
Centuries passed, kingdoms crumbled into dust, empires rose and vanished like tides upon the shore, cities of stone gave way to cities of glass and electric light. And through it all, hidden in plain sight, House Targaryen endured it all, untouched by the malleable cruelty of time.
Their power burned bright, forged in blood older than memory and in the fading remembrance of fire. They were not tyrants, nor monsters whispered of in frightened tales. And yet, beneath that fragile peace, humanity lived in the long, cold shadow of dragons that no longer flew.
For every curse demanded its price. The fire that once roared in dragon hearts had long since withered into something colder, something emptier and only the hunger remained. Not that of wild beasts, but a slow and patient thirst that coiled through immortal veins and whispered of the fire they had lost.
So the vampires fed. Human blood became the last fragile echo of the dragon’s flame, warm, fleeting, and painfully alive. Humans were chosen to sustain that echo, blood banks preserved like rare and delicate things, suspended between privilege and quiet surrender, with bodies promised to an ancient hunger that could never truly be satisfied.
The world had long gone made its peace with this bargain, and still, people sought it. For to be chosen meant climbing a ladder and escaping the smallness of an ordinary life towards a golden cage in the gilded orbit of immortals. It meant standing close enough to eternity to feel its cold breath upon your skin, close enough to feed the kings of death themselves.
Duncan yearned for that place, not out of wealth or privilege but purely out of hatred and revenge which sat in his chest like coals. He was a weapon carved from grief, honed by betrayal, and haunted by the echo of a love cut too short.
Duncan knew dragons were vain. He had grown up hearing tales of their pride, their hunger for power, their endless craving for treasures both golden and human. He understood that to live in their world was to survive in a society where immortals walked among humans like kings among ants.
But no story could have prepared him for this.
He did not expect a dragon to take his parents. Maekar Targaryen carved a wound deep in his soul, a scar that burned with a fire no mortal could douse.
He had once grasped happiness in his hands, held it close and breathed it in, and that made its absence all the more cruel.
All that lingered was raw and bitter, like biting into something that used to be ripe. It curdled in his mouth, memory turned to ash. The worst of it wasn't the grief but the hunger for something he now knew existed but could never have again.
Duncan had grown up poor, raised in the shadow of loss by Arlan Tall, a friend of his family who had seen the boy’s grief and forged it into something that could endure. He had taught him how to hunt monsters, how to anticipate hunger, to move through darkness without being swallowed by it. But he had also taught him kindness, the quiet courage of a heart that still aches for others even when the world has long forgotten how to care.
The letter arrived on a gray morning, when the sky hung low and heavy over the city, as if even the clouds understood the weight it carried. Duncan’s hands trembled with the slow, almost sacred recognition of what it meant. The envelope was thick, embossed with the seal of Ashford University, and the parchment inside smelled faintly of old ink and ambition.
He had been accepted, among the elite, among the immortals. He will be part of the few who had survived the sieve of centuries, who moved with power and purpose, untouched by ordinary human limits.
The thought unfurled something long buried in his chest, a ribbon of triumph, bitter and exquisite, wound tightly around his ribs and lungs. This was no mere scholarship, it was a doorway into the gilded world he had spent years carving himself toward, a place where humans and vampires danced side by side in the half-light of eternity.
He could feel the gravity of the letter pressing against him, a tangible thing, heavier than any weight he had ever lifted, more exquisite than any pain he had endured.
You are ready to hunt, Duncan.
It was the first true step on the path that would bring him close enough to touch the dragons themselves. Close enough to feed one prince’s thirst, and through that, strike at the father he had never forgiven.
He would take from the dragon the one treasure it cannot bear to surrender, the fragile beating promise of its bloodline, one of its eggs, one of its sons.
Packing his bag felt heavier than it should have for Duncan. Each folded shirt, each book slipped carefully into place, carried a quiet weight he could not quite name. It was not only the thought of leaving the old man behind, nor the mist-laden skies of Ireland, nor the lonely shores where the wind carried the endless murmur of the sea.
It was the path that waited for him beyond them.
The journey to Ashford was not simply a departure, it was a promise he had made to himself, a purpose sharpened over years of training and grief. Yet the closer it came, the more it pressed against the softer parts of him. Arlan had raised him to be kind in a world that had very little use for kindness, and that gentleness lingered in him stubbornly, like the tide that refused to be held back by stone.
Sometimes, it dulled the edge of his resolve, it made the task ahead feel unbearably heavy.
Duncan paused, listening to the distant crash of waves against the Irish shore. He wondered, not for the first time, whether a heart taught to care so deeply could truly carry the weight of revenge.
By the time he arrived at Ashford, the sea was only a memory. In its place stood ancient walls of dark stone, towering and watchful, steeped in centuries that did not belong to men alone. The air inside them felt wrong somehow, too still, too warm, as if something enormous slept beneath the bones of the building.
It was the lingering heat of dragons which clung to the corridors and breathed through the stone itself, a slow, smoldering presence that seemed to watch and wait, as though the fire of creatures long cursed had never truly died, only hidden itself within the walls.
── .✦
Aerion pushed the quiet onyx black door with both hands, his sheer black gloves doing little to keep the cold from seeping into his fingers. The moment it gave way, the music crashed over him loudly, and the lights were far too bright, far too sharp.
But then again, Lyonnel Baratheon had never missed an opportunity to throw a thunderous initiation party. Subtlety had never been the laughing storm's gift.
Aerion stepped inside with a faint grimace. His head throbbed with a violent, pulsing ache, and his throat burned with a hunger that would not be ignored. It yawned inside him like a hollow pit, vast and restless, ready to swallow him whole like a starving sandworm. The thirst in his veins had grown impatient. Over the years, his palate had sharpened, refined itself into something merciless, and mediocre blood no longer quieted it.
He didn't want to be sustained, he wanted to be satisfied.
Aerion stepped further into the room, the harsh lights catching in the pale strands of his hair. It was silver, almost white, cut short in a careless boyish fashion that only made the sharpness of his features more striking. The color framed his face like a cold halo, throwing his high cheekbones and severe jaw into quiet relief. His skin carried that strange, porcelain pallor common to his kind, smooth and almost luminous against the dark pulse of the room.
The sheer red tunic he wore clung lightly to his frame, the fabric deep as spilled wine. Fine embroidery traced the shoulders, tiny diamonds stitched into the cloth so they caught the light whenever he moved, glittering like embers in dying fire. Beneath it, tailored black slacks fell in clean, severe lines, the entire ensemble speaking not merely of wealth, but of the effortless, ancient kind that had never needed to be earned.
The moment Aerion crossed the threshold of the Baratheon estate, the room shifted. Conversations faltered, laughter thinned, and heads turned almost instinctively. It was as though the air itself had noticed him first, whispering his arrival through the crowded hall until every gaze found its way to him.
Aerion Targaryen did not seem to walk. He glided. Each step carried a quiet, deliberate grace, his movements carved with an almost unnatural precision, as though every gesture had been perfected long before the night began. The many lights of the room caught against his pale face as he moved, flickering across his features like restless firelight over marble.
“Brightflame!” The voice crashed through the moment like storm.
Lyonel Baratheon was already pushing through the guests, arms thrown wide as if welcoming a conquering king.
His booming laughter rang across the hall, loud enough to swallow the music itself, “We are so honored, oh my prince, that you have decided to grace us with your presence tonight!”
he makes a mocking reverance before Aerion rolls his eyes, he was far too drunk and joyful for a party that had started just an hour ago.
"Damn someone's in a bad mood, you need to get drunk and chill out a bit. Your big brother is already out cold."
Aerion’s lip twitched faintly at his brother's mention. Daeron had always been careless with his indulgences, a little drunken wreck, chasing every strange substance and spoiled bottle of blood that crossed his path. Aerion had no intention of sharing the same fate. His brother could drown himself in rot if he pleased, but Aerion preferred his pleasures far more refined.
Without answering, the silver-haired prince drifted away from the noise of Lyonel’s laughter and the crush of bodies on the dance floor. At the back of the room, half-shadowed beneath softer lights, sat a low, immaculate couch upholstered in dark velvet. He settled into it with effortless elegance beside the small circle already gathered there.
“Friends” would have been far too generous a word for the small constellation gathered there.
His cousin Valarr reclined among them with the careless ease of someone who had never once doubted his place in the world, while beside him lingered his human shadow,Raymun Fossoway, hovering close and loyal to a fault like a shadow that refused to detach itself. The man clung to Valarr with a strange, stubborn devotion, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward Tybolt Lannister with open disdain, as though the mere sight of him left a bitter taste on his tongue.
They existed in a quiet stalemate of glances and silences, their civility stretched thin over rivalries too old and too ingrained to name aloud. Words were polite, smiles measured, but beneath them all lay the faint, constant tension of wolves sharing the same narrow clearing.
And yet, they remained. Perhaps it was convenience. Perhaps something older and more binding than friendship.
For every house seated in that dim corner of the room had once risen in the long shadow of House Targaryen, nourished in the distant warmth of dragonfire. They were fledglings once. Names lifted into power by the slow, deliberate grace of the dragons who ruled above them.
But time has a way of changing things, it had sharpened those fledglings into something more dangerous. Their families had grown rich, powerful, rooted deep within the bones of the modern world.
They could no longer be brushed aside like lesser creatures.
They were not dragons, but neither were they prey.
“Androw already sent out the invitations for the new recruits two days ago,” Lyonel announced, his voice thick with drunken delight. “And from what I’ve gathered, the new humans are going to be a fucking delight.”
He was practically glowing with anticipation, sprawled back against the cushions as he rambled on about the coming term, about fresh faces, fragile loyalties, and the particular amusements that always followed the arrival of new blood.
His laughter rolled easily between talk of humans and vampires alike, indulgent and shameless, as if the whole affair were nothing more than a grand, decadent game arranged for his personal entertainment.
Beside him, Valarr Targaryen reached forward and placed a glass of Bordeaux Grand Cru Classé into Aerion’s hand. The movement was smooth, deliberate.
His heterochromatic eyes lingered on Aerion a moment too long, one pale as winter light, the other dark as old amber, but both sharp, watchful, and unnervingly still. There was something predatory in the quiet patience of his gaze, almost predatory in their stillness. He studied Aerion the way a hawk studies the movements of something far below it, patient and unblinking, as though convinced that if he observed the silver-haired prince long enough, some hidden truth might eventually rise to the surface.
As if Aerion were a puzzle waiting to betray its secret.
── .✦
When Dunk received the invitation, the envelope was black as nightfall and sealed with a drop of red wax that looked almost like dried blood. It felt strangely heavy in his hands, as though the paper carried more than a simple summons.
Inside, there was no elaborate message, no welcoming flourish, only an address and a single line written in careful, deliberate script, a password meant to open the doors of the initiation party.
Blood Storm.
The Baratheon estate stood not far from the school grounds, its dark silhouette rising above the trees like an ancient painting. The walk there took scarcely ten minutes, yet each step seemed to stretch longer than the last, the weight of the night settling quietly against Duncan’s ribs.
He had dressed in the best he owned, though it was hardly worthy of the place he was about to enter, a black quarter-zip pulled neatly over a plain white shirt. No velvet, or silk, and no glittering embroidery whispering of old fortunes and older bloodlines.
His hair a dirty sandy blond and cut in a simple boyish style fell carelessly over his brow, stirred now and then by the evening wind. Beneath him, his white Nike shoes scraped softly through the gravel path as he walked, the small sound oddly loud in the stillness of the night.
When Duncan arrived at the mansion, it was nearly a fortress of shadow and elegance, where every corner seemed to hum with secrets. From the darkness, a man in a tuxedo emerged, his eyes sharp and assessing, drinking in the sight of Duncan’s shabby attire before demanding the password.
Duncan’s moon-shaped lips trembled, caught between fear and defiance, and he breathed, “blood storm.”
The black door, heavy and silent, yielded at his touch, and he stepped into a world that seemed to swallow him whole. Crimson carpets rolled endlessly beneath his feet, rich as spilled wine.
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, jolting him. “Welcome to my humble house, Duncan Tall, i'm Lyonel Baratheon,” a voice purred, equal parts amusement and command. Lyonnel's eyes gleamed with premeditated mischief, he had long ago coaxed Androw Ashford into filching the new students’ files from his father’s office, like a prank fit for schoolboys, yet here it all converged under the vaulted shadows of his grand hall.
Duncan grinned at the man who’d gone and ditched his shirt in the middle of all the booze and debauchery, chest bare and gleaming like polished marble, a crown of iron antlers perched on his head like some twisted stag god. Strobe lights cut across the crowd in jagged flashes, bass rattling the floor beneath his boots, the air thick with perfume, smoke, and the sharp tang of spilt alcohol and blood.
Shadows moved with predator’s grace, most of them vampires, some human, all caught up in the chaos.
“Thanks for the invite, mate,” Duncan said, voice a touch too casual, his tall frame and sculpted build making the familiarity feel awkward against the pulsing, neon-lit madness.
“No problem,” Lyonnel said, his brown eyes studying Duncan with a sharp intensity before guiding him towards the back of the room. “I’m going to introduce you to some of my mates. I’m sure you’ll get on with them, Dunk.”
The blond-haired boy could see the glint of malice in his eyes. Duncan wasn’t just being shown around, he was being presented, a curious new toy for Lyonnel’s little circle of vampires, each step drawing him further into their dark, intoxicating world.
They say tragedies are written in silence, long before the first word is ever spoken. And when Dunk’s eyes fell on the silver-haired prince for the first time, it felt tragic. His hair framing his face like a pale, radiant halo, a beauty that was sharp, cold, and utterly lethal.
An angel of death, so devastatingly pretty, so impossibly dangerous, that Dunk’s breath caught before he even knew he had noticed.
“Boy, stop gaping and fetch me a drink,” Aerion’s voice cut through him, soft but sharp, impossible to ignore. There was a tautness to it, an arrogance pulled tight like a bowstring, and Dunk felt it strike like ice along his spine.
The blond haired boy to his left threw back his head, laughing at Dunk’s stunned expression. “Come on, Brightflame! You’re scaring him off already. The fun hasn’t even started.”
He rose from his seat, extending a hand with easy confidence, “Name’s Tybolt Lannister. The little prince in the middle there is our highly esteemed Aerion Targaryen. His cousin Valarr is right there, and that-”he jerked a thumb toward the dark-haired boy“-is Raymun Fossoway, no one of great importance.”
“Fuck off,” Raymun said, his tone flat, dismissive, yet something in his sharp glance hinted that he was anything but harmless.
Tybolt grabbed Dunk by the shoulders, spinning him gently to face another corner of the room. “And that’s Aerion’s brother, Daeron, he’s a bit out of it right now. Beside him, Androw Ashford, his father’s the one who got you your scholarship, so be a good lad and play nice with him.”
He waved a hand toward Raymun. “Raymun, show Duncan where the drinks are. And for God’s sake, try to keep the glaring and killer eyes to a minimum, yeah?”
Duncan’s composure slipped. He had meant to keep his mask of calm, to remember why he was here, but it was useless. He gaped, foolish and unguarded, caught in the silent pull of Aerion’s presence, unable to look away from the prince who seemed to command every gaze in the room.
With a shuddering breath, he wrenched himself free from the small gathering, forcing his legs to move, and fell in step behind Raymun and Tybolt, trying desperately to reclaim some measure of control.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tybolt said, nudging him lightly. He was smaller than Dunk, slender, almost unthreatening, almost human, entirely unlike the creatures that haunted the corners of the hall. “The pretty ones are always temperamental.”
“Sorry?” Dunk murmured, still slow to catch nuance.
“Lannister means the princeling,” Raymun said, handing him a bottle of champagne that gleamed too brightly for a party this chaotic.
Tybolt draped an arm over Raymun’s shoulder, ruffling his dark hair. “Our little human here doesn’t like the Targaryens much. Thinks they’re incestuous aliens with odd queer customs and rusty dragon blood that makes them go berserk on people.”
He leaned down slightly, voice low and teasing. “But somehow he keeps hanging around Valarr like a good dog. Oh, Raymun, Valarr’s probably too… well, incestuous, to want you for anything but your blood.”
Duncan could only watch in silence while Ryamun pushed the blond haired boy off him his mouth spouting insults as he was turning to leave.
"Ah humans, too sensitive. Come on let's go back." Tybolt didn’t wait for Duncan to follow. By the time Dunk processed the flood of names, jokes, and subtle threats, the Lannister was already weaving through the crowd, swallowed by the pulse of lights and music.
When the tall boy made his way back to the small circle gathered around the far too prestigious couch, the music and laughter of the party seemed to dull around him, as though the room itself were watching.
Duncan moved with quiet care, taking a seat while uncorking the champagne bottle. The soft pop of the cork disappeared beneath the thunder of music as he poured a glass and offered it to the dragon prince.
Aerion accepted it with languid indifference, “And who,” he said softly, his voice edged with something colder than the ice in the glass, “told you that you could sit down?”
Duncan noticed his mouth then, beautifully shaped, almost delicate. Too beautiful, he thought, for words that carried such sharpness, and for the wretched temper that lived behind them.
Before he could answer, Lyonel’s booming voice cut through the tension, “Gods, Aerion mate, you need to chill,” He laughed, sprawled lazily against the cushions, he was now nursing a blood bag against his chest like a favored bottle of wine. “Let the poor boy sit, Dunk here should have a little fun before the bite.”
The drunken haze Duncan had first noticed in Lyonel seemed to have thinned and his eyes were clearer now, glinting with a kind of amused curiosity.
Aerion’s pale gaze slid back to Duncan.
“And why,” he asked, each word slow and deliberate, “would a peasant like him deserve the privilege of taking the bite?”
For a fleeting second, the moment felt strangely ordinary. Just a group of eighteen year olds arguing over drinks in a dim corner of a party, bickering like bored students after too many glasses of booze and wine. But Aerion’s voice shattered the illusion, and Dunk felt the reminder settle into his bones.
These were not simply students, these were blood drinking creatures wearing the shape of boys.
“What do you mean by the bite?” he asked quietly, ignoring the insult entirely.
Arlan had never mentioned such a thing. Duncan had been taught that humans who served as blood banks were chosen carefully by councils, by quiet observation, by the rare attention of a vampire who had taken interest.
“A scholarship doesn’t come for free, Tall,” the voice came from behind him, rich with amusement. Dunk turned to find and Androw with a wide smile gleaming with mischief, "This initiation party exists for one reason, so the vampires can choose a few promising humans as pets.”
His eyes flicked over Duncan with lazy interest. “And tonight, you’re all waiting to become someone’s new toy.”
Ah.
The realization settled quietly in Duncan’s chest, for a moment he had expected panic, or dread, some tightening of the throat at the thought of what the night truly meant. Instead, a faint sense of relief spread through him, slow and steady. At least now the rules were plain, he would not have to maneuver through polite smiles and careful conversations, nor spend weeks weaving himself into the attention of princes who had no reason to notice him. No endless games. No quiet performances meant to earn a passing glance.
The choice would be made here, tonight, in the open.
And if fortune or foolishness favored him, perhaps the drunken one, Daeron, would choose him. Already drowning himself in wine and spoiled blood, a prince like that would not look too closely.
“Or maybe you and that silver-haired brat could leave him alone.”
“Tanselle, please. You know how the initiation goes, there are rules to be respected here,” Valarr said quietly, and it was the first time that night Duncan heard his voice.
Dunk tore his gaze away from Androw’s mischievous, overconfident grin and turned toward the speaker.
She stood taller than most in the room, long-limbed and sun-touched, her skin warm bronze beneath the dim lights. There was something arresting about her beauty, it was the sort that came with spine and fire, the kind that did not bow easily.
“A pack of bullies,” she said, her voice sharp with disdain. “All grown and still playing cat and mouse with humans. It’s embarrassing for you and for the school's reputation.”
“And you.” Her painted finger lifted and pointed straight at Aerion. “Your mother loved you best, Aerion. It’s a shame you grew into such a wretched thing, so convinced humans are beneath you. To think she passed in unfortunate circumstances for a blood of the dragon, and yet you learned nothing from it.”
It happened in a blink. One moment Tanselle stood tall, defiant as a spear. The next she was on her knees. Aerion’s hand had closed around hers, pale fingers forcing her own back one by one, bending them slowly, and cruelly, past the point where joints were meant to go.
“You seem to have forgotten yourself,” Aerion hissed, his voice as cold and sharp as ice, and the air around him seemed to grow colder with every word. “You’re nothing but a foolish fledgling, born by mistake, and i will teach you never to speak of my mother again.”
A scream ripped through the air as Aerion’s hand coiled around Tanselle’s wrist, twisting her fingers with the precision of a predator, ready to snap them like brittle twigs under winter frost.
Instinct surged before thought could intervene.
Dunk lunged. He did not plan, did not hesitate, he simply reacted, driven by a raw, blazing need to stop the cruelty unfolding before him. With a roar that carried more defiance than fear, his fist collided with Aerion’s jaw, sending the prince stumbling backward onto the rich red carpets.
One strike was not enough. Another followed, a kick that sent Aerion reeling again, and even as attendants rushed forward, they could not halt him. Dunk moved with a singular purpose, every action fueled by the desperate desire to protect Tanselle from the cold-blooded prince.
He straddled Aerion, hands gripping the collar of the prince’s crimson tunic, ready to unleash a torrent of words.
And yet, in that instant, his gaze caught him fully, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, everything else vanished.
He was so close. Dunk could see the faint constellation of freckles across Aerion’s pale cheeks, the delicate curve of his blood stained lips, plump and almost soft against the severity of his gaze. Tiny earrings glinted along his ear, thin rings and sharp studs of gold and diamond, catching the light with every turn, scattering sparks that burned cold across the room. Even in violence, even as he grappled the prince, Dunk could not deny it. He was beautiful in a way that hurt.
It was a spectacle no one would forget, a mere human striking a Targaryen prince. Tybolt and another figure Dunk did not recognize seized him, trying to restrain the storm of his rage.
Aerion rose, brushing away non-existent dust with a languid grace, his expression more bewildered than wounded, more affronted than in pain. He spat blood onto the floor, tongue flicking over lips with a motion that was almost dragonesque, a reminder that he was no ordinary boy, he was a Targaryen, a living dragon.
“You loosened one of my teeth,” he said slowly, voice calm and sharp, “and made me bleed… all for this whore.” His gaze lingered on Dunk, predatory and amused, as he paced with fluid movements. “Very well. I suppose i will start by bleeding you dry.”
In the background, Duncan could hear Lyonel’s voice, sharp and commanding, ushering the rest of the mansion’s guests out. The music dulled to a near silent hush, leaving only the small circle of friends in the room, and Daeron, still sprawled unconscious on a distant couch.
“Aerion, your father—” Tybolt’s voice cut in, tentative, as he loosened his grip on Duncan, joined by the other figure who had held him back.
But Aerion did not listen. In the blink of an eye, he was upon Duncan, straddling his broad frame with the grace and inevitability of a predator. The heat radiating from him was almost suffocating, a tangible aura of power that pressed against Dunk from every side.
“Duncan Tall,” Aerion’s voice was low, dangerous, curling like smoke in the tense air, "Tonight, you will learn that the dragon ought never lose."
"But you are no dragon, my prince."
Duncan felt the weight of history pressing down on him, cruel and inevitable. A boy and his bloodline, cursed to wander the earth, stripped of their wings and fire, condemned to remember the heavens they had lost, and yet that same arrogance and fire, the very pride that had flung them from the skies and drawn the wrath of the Seven, still lingered, glinting like frost on stone.
He hated them.
He hated this pretty silver-haired princeling, luminous and cold, who looked at humans as though they were nothing but insects scuttling beneath his shadow. And in that gaze, in that perfect, unfeeling face, there was a quiet tragedy, beautiful, terrible, and utterly inevitable. Like a star burning too brightly before it falls.
But there can be no true despair without the cruel glimmer of power, no beauty untouched by the shadow of dragons, and love can blossom even from the carcass of hate.